Bare.

Have you ever tried it? Removing a band-aid quickly from a still-to-heal wound? It's like a sudden wave of masochism overcomes you. It's painful.
The band-aid has bits of skin, flecks of blood and your wound stings and hurts. Looks ugly and oozes blood.

That's how I feel right now. Like someone unknowingly, unwittingly pulled back the little medicated strip. Really really fast. And without warning. And a conglomeration of emotions have been uncovered.

I feel lousy. stupid. unsettled.
I want to press rewind or fast foward. Unfortunately, those are non-existent options.

gleaming white horses and armour that shines

Recently I had this really bad bout of homesickness. Yes, I live with my parents at home. But somehow, I miss *Dilli*, and I call it home. No, I don’t know all the gullies of Chandini Chowk, and I have never ever been to Karol Bagh. But Delhi feels like Home. I think it’s the people.

So, I called one of my favouritest people up. And realised that I wasn’t the only disillusioned soul.
She exclaimed in her normal over-dramatic voice: “ Rosh, yaar, I give up. I’ve had enough. Boys are such ass-holes.”

Me: “Hm. Agreed. Calm down.”

Then she said some pretty obscene things about the species (bolstered by my enthusiastic approval).
I smiled to myself and told her, “Let me hear you say this when it comes to your handsome knight atop the prettiest white horse.”

She shattered my dream and said, “There are no knights.”

But I believe in *metamorphosis*. Hopeful, that.

Driftwood

I suddenly, seriously doubt my ability to not create problems. To not jeopardise a relationship, furthering people’s idea of me being *stuck up*. In the past year, a friend who meant a lot to me just drifted away.

I’m not jealous. I’m just sad. We didn’t have any major disagreement and I’d like to believe that we had fun together. It is so weird. Every time I see her now, I think we both feel a misplaced sense of obligation, to be nice, to be social, and to ask about things we no longer care for. And what can you say, when she asks, “How’ve you been?” or “Whatsup?” In those ten minutes that she now has for me, can I tell her how I’ve been sulking? Or all my superficial woes? My joys, my fears, the new clothes I bought and the fight I had with my mother?

I can’t.

So we just paste fake smiles on our faces even though inside I’m hurting and disgusted. Because it’s very easy to blame her for going away to more fulfilling and equal friendships.

When people leave like this, it makes my self esteem plunge a few notches. Obviously, she’s happier now. I try to be happy for her.

I can’t help but wonder, why?

Smoke.Sun.Sweat.

-the price you pay for *yummy* Punjabi food


Bobby da Dhaba, near Gurudwara, Ulsoor.


A little hovel in the ground. Brought back memories of long road trips and aloo parathas. Vaish, Thari and I went to satisfy our Punjabi food craving to this much talked/written about place.
Five-six rickety tables, loose roof tiles, cobwebs, grime and smoke. Not particularly attractive. Uh-uh.

As we waited outside in the sun, vying for a little shade, for a bit of newspaper to fan ourselves, smoke billowed in our faces, thick and grey. Making us tear. Along with it came the smells. *Hamare pet mein choohe sher ban gaye the!*
We could no longer restrain ourselves from cursing the ones already inside, sending them murderous looks in the hope that they would abandon their parathas and flee. It was not to be.

We finally set our eyes on our methi,aloo and pyaaz parathas, shahi paneer, lassi and achaar. Garam garam with a huge dollop of butter =D
Heaven. I’m going back there. Soon.


Bobby and Bobby ki mummy, Shukriya! =D

My little sister and brother

There were times when I fought with everyone. I was angry. I was weepy. I was alone. I was in my tantrum-throwing mood.
It was the best time to clear out my cluttered drawer, crush long forgotten to-do lists, and tear to bits secretly written love letters.

So when my crappy mood simmered down. And I no longer wanted to destroy all in my path, I slammed my door shut making all the windowpanes shake (yeah, so, the crappiness can’t disappear in an instant, right?). The fury giving in to tears. I hug my pillow like my life depends on it, and wish to god, I had little sisters and brothers.

I look at myself in the mirror, little salt rivers down my cheeks. I think. For twenty years, I have been spoilt. I have been loved. But, I believed my friends were my sibling substitutes.
The person in the mirror stared back at me. Tear tracks dried. Skin stretched. Incredulous expression. I did have siblings. Annoying ones too.

A sister and a brother. My amma and appa.

I know I’m a pain in the ass. Sometimes. Always.
Some genes, huh?

I love you :D

An Egg Roll.

It was that time of the year. College fests. Lots of crazy people and yummy food. After witnessing a highly amusing session of “disco-dancers”, Shahid Kapoor and Hrithik Roshan wannabes, I made my way home.

I got into an autorickshaw, plugged in my earphones, put my bag and egg roll parcel on the seat and hoped the traffic would be kind to me. 6.30 pm, on a Friday evening. What was I doing? Hoping for a miracle?

As the tuk-tuk of the rickshaw died down and I could finally hear the music again. I waited for red to turn green.
And then a little hand grabbed my leg, pulled my jeans. I was too much of a coward to remove my earphones. I shook my head and looked straight. She tugged again and gestured toward the egg roll wrapped in foil and tissue. I think over Kelly Clarkson crooning, “I’ll take a risk, take a chance, make a change, and break away” I heard her saying, “Didi, thoda sa de do”. I gave a feeble shake and the auto sprang back to life. The wind was in my face and in my hair. I looked down at the fluttering plastic wrapping. The egg roll.

Later, in the evening as I watched television, I ate the roll. Tried to. The food was tasteless. And when I washed down the last bite with water, it was bitter.

PS: I wish I had acted differently. I hope next time I have enough courage to do what is right. But is it right?
If I had given the egg roll to her, would I have felt better? Am I not encouraging her to continue this lifestyle?
But, all this is irrelevant. She doesn’t have a choice. I wish she had.

The other side of the glass door.

Sunflowers, roses and dahlias. Squirrels scurrying around. The garden looked beautiful. And there was a tall, huge man. Of Rajput or Pathani descent, the doorkeeper. Dressed in the familiar red, blue and gold.

At 3:00 pm on New Year’s Eve we reached our hotel. Hungry and tired. Dumped our bags in the hotel room and sat down to lunch in the dining area of the lobby surrounded by glass doors.

As I started to eat the naan and the paneer butter masala I looked up. I saw the doorkeeper looking in our direction and quickly went back to my food to avoid embarrassing him. When I reached for the achar, the sun did not catch the gold in his uniform and I did not shield my eyes.
I realised he had gone and stood on the other side from we could not see him. My mother remarked about his sensitivity and said, “pavam”.

I wondered how it must feel to stand all day and night; opening and closing the door for hundreds of people who are extremely capable of doing so themselves. That is when my father said, “The darwan takes great pride in what he does. There is no reason we should feel bad for him.”

I remembered the story of Prithviraj and Samyukta.